


Crime Writer

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, But they adore each other anyway, Friendship, Gen, Knight Rider - Freeform, No real romance in this, because Sherlock is literally a car, pure silliness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-10-23 07:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: A shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist.John Watson, a young loner on a crusade--to document and champion the cause of the innocent, the helpless, the powerless--in a world of criminals who operate above the law.AKnight Riderfusion for the Miniseries April Challenge.





	1. The Case of the Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Some pure and silly 1980s fun for the [Miniseries April](http://falltvseasonsherlock.tumblr.com/) challenge. 
> 
> I've made an effort to be somewhat vague with my timeline in the hopes of avoiding any obvious anachronisms, but they may happen. Forgive me.

*

A steady beeping. Relentless. Familiar. 

"Will he make it?" 

"He's strong." 

Darkness pulled him under. 

*

_"What are you—" he asked. Shook his head. "What's going on?"_

_"Change of plan," she said. "I'm sorry, John."_

_Her finger tightened on the trigger. He did not hear the shot._

*

"Is he awake?" 

"In and out of consciousness." 

He struggled to focus, drifted, faded. 

*

When he woke again, there was pain.

"Try to stay calm," an unfamiliar voice, posh, crisp annunciation. 

His face hurt. His head ached. Everything was muffled, bleary. He struggled to open his eyes, found only darkness. Panic seized him and he tried to struggle into a sitting position, found himself immobilized.

"That," the voice sighed, "is not calm." 

A rustling sound. Distant, faraway. His concern melted, faded. He drifted away. 

*

When he woke again, he woke fully. 

"John," someone said. "Can you hear me?" 

He flexed his limbs experimentally. They seemed functional. His face was—his face was swathed in bandages. Thick ones. His head _ached_ , a miserable, cracked-open feeling. Throbbing, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, with the beeping machine to his left.

"Mmpf," he tried. 

"Good," the voice said. "That's good. That's progress." 

"Mary," he said again, clearer this time.

Silence. A heavy silence. 

"Yes. We'll have to speak about that when you're stronger." 

_No, I want to speak about it now,_ he thought, frantic, but his head ached and his heart thumped heavily in his chest and just stirring in bed was too much, too much. He leaned back, breathed. Listened to the machines beep. 

*

John woke up, as he had for the past several weeks, with the crack of a gunshot echoing in his ears and Mary's name on his lips. 

He was no longer restrained, as he had been in those first few disorienting days.

Mycroft —Mycroft _Holmes,_ as he'd introduced himself—was again at his bedside. John could hear him, the rustle of a newspaper, the shift of cloth. 

"She shot me," he said, his voice muffled by the bandages still wrapped around his face.

"Yes," Mycroft said. Another rustle, the sound of the paper being set aside. The creak of a chair. John's eyes fluttered under the wrapping. "What do you remember?"

What _did_ he remember? 

His thoughts were jumbled. Probing too deeply into them set off inexplicable panic, cold sweats, trembling limbs, a terrible feeling of wrongness. Mary. He remembered Mary. 

"Think carefully," Mycroft said. 

He thought. 

His name was John Hamish. He was thirty-six years old. He was not married. His parents were deceased. He had a sister called Harriet. They were not close. 

He probed further. 

He was military. No. Former military. He'd been injured in the Falklands—had taken a piece of shrapnel to the head. It had ended his career. 

He'd returned to London following a lengthy recuperation, had spent several aimless weeks adrift with nothing but his own miserable thoughts to keep him company. 

A chance encounter with a former schoolmate, Mike Stamford, had led to him landing a job in news. He had been—surprised, by how well he'd taken to journalism. He had a knack for digging up a story, for finding truths buried just beneath the surface. 

He'd been good at it. He'd liked his job. He'd found purpose in his work. 

He'd—

"Good," Mycroft said. "That's good. All of that matches perfectly with your file. Do you remember anything else? Anything at all about how you wound up here?" 

He tried. 

"Mary," he said. "Mary _Morstan._ "

"Yes." 

She'd approached him. He could not recall why. She'd had a nice smile, a sharp wit. He'd wanted to be closer to her. He'd—

_"Change of plan," she'd said. "I'm sorry, John."_

"She shot me," he said again, frustrated. 

"Yes," Mycroft said, and this time his voice was not without sympathy. "But you survived." 

He reached up, touched the bandages. A dull creeping sort of horror had set in, something that he hadn't felt since those first terrible days he'd spent in military hospital. He'd been lucky, then, so to speak. The shrapnel had caught him in the side of the head. He'd wound up with a metal plate in his skull, but had suffered no facial disfigurement. 

Something told him he hadn't gotten off that easily this time around.

"How bad is it?" he asked. 

Mycroft breathed in, a measured breath. The kind of breath someone took before they delivered bad news. "You're dead." 

He laughed, although the motion hurt. 

Silence from Mycroft. He found himself suddenly, desperately, wanting to claw the bandages from his face, to see whatever there was to see in the man's face.

"Three months ago," Mycroft said. "John Hamish was shot and killed by an unknown assailant. Police believe the motive to be connected to a story he was working on at the time, although no concrete link could be found."

"Funny," John said, although he found it anything but. "Except I'm clearly not dead." 

"Not so clearly." 

"What do you—" 

"You need your rest. We'll talk more tomorrow. The doctor is optimistic that we'll be able to remove those bandages." 

"But—"

"Tomorrow," Mycroft said. 

*

He tried not to grimace as they cut away the wrapping. It stuck to his skin, pinching as it peeled back. 

After so long swathed in darkness, the room was overbright. He blinked, wincing. 

The person at his bedside swam into view. He was tall, pale, dressed well. Mycroft, he assumed. 

"How bad is it?" he asked. 

"You've undergone substantial reconstructive surgery," Mycroft said. "The results are—quite remarkable, if I do say so myself." He cleared his throat. "The metal plate in your skull, the souvenir of your army days—" 

"Mortar hit," John said. "Bad luck, really. Took a piece of shrapnel to the head."

"Yes, well, it appears in this instance that your bad luck was actually nothing of the sort. Ms Morstan's bullet ricocheted off of the plate. Had it not been there, we almost certainly would not be having this conversation." 

John reached up, touched his face, ran his fingers over the unfamiliar topography. 

"Would you like to see?" 

He hesitated. Looked around. The room was large, richly appointed. Tall windows to his left, a sofa against the far wall, near a fireplace. He was, quite clearly, not in hospital.

Mycroft extended a small hand mirror. He took it, reluctant, lifted it to his face. 

A stranger stared back. 

"Well?"

He breathed out, shut his eyes. Opened them again. Stared. 

The face was plain, amiable. Good-looking, he supposed, but not striking. There was no scarring. 

"It's not me," he said. 

"Something you should be grateful for," Mycroft said. "As showing your old face would almost certainly get you killed." 

"You said—" John swallowed, let the mirror drop to his side. "You said I'm already dead." 

"Yes. Legally, John Hamish is dead." 

"Then who am I?" 

"Well, that rather depends." 

"On what?"

"On you." 

"Where am I?" 

"Somewhere safe." 

John frowned, tightened his fists and released them. "I want answers." 

"You've been on our radar for some time," Mycroft said. "Our organization had been tailing you, covertly, when Ms Morstan revealed her duplicitous nature."

Mary, her hand on the gun. Finger on the trigger. _I'm sorry, John._

He forced himself to focus. "And what, exactly, is your organization?"

"The Sherrinford-Holmes Foundation." 

John laughed, a sharp, humourless bark. "Am I supposed to know what that is?"

"No, I would certainly say not," Mycroft said. "Our operations are conducted—well. I believe _behind the scenes_ is an apt enough descriptor at this time." 

He nodded, unsatisfied, irritated. "You said you'd been tailing me. When—" he cleared his throat, looked down at his hands, pale and clenched. "Did you get her?"

"Unfortunately not," Mycroft said. "Our immediate priority was saving your life. Your assailant pushed you out of a moving vehicle and fled the scene unimpeded." 

"She shot me." 

"Yes, you've said." 

"I can't—it doesn't make any sense. I was helping her. She came to me."

"From what we could determine, the woman who approached you seeking to incriminate her former employer was not, precisely, who she said she was." 

"No kidding," Johns said. He shifted where he lay. His limbs felt weak, rubbery. He had been too long off his feet.

"What I mean to say," Mycroft said. "Is that she misled you on the precise nature of her employment." 

"The nature of her employment?" 

"Mary Morstan was not a personal assistant to Charles Augustus Magnussen."

Charles Augustus Magnussen. 

Christ, even the name made his skin crawl. That was what he'd—that was who had—

But _Mary—_

"I remember," he said. And he did. It flooded back to him with cold, horrifying clarity. 

Magnussen was untouchable. There was no bad press, because he _owned_ the press. And John had—John had seen him, and John and sensed something, and John had done what he did best, which was scratch at the surface of something shiny and dig up its dark underbelly. 

Blackmail. Extortion. Treason. Magnussen's hands were so dirty it was a miracle no one had put the pieces together yet. And yet there had been something, something specific—

"Military secrets," John said. "Magnussen was selling military secrets." 

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed. "We suspected as much. But we have no proof."

"I had proof," he said. "I had it in my hand." 

_I'm sorry, John._

Mary had contacted him. She'd been charming, and lovely, and she'd sold him a story, a story he'd bought without question. She worked for Magnussen, she was his assistant, handled his day-to-day affairs. She'd seen his dealings first hand. And she'd wanted him brought to justice. 

"I can get you in," she'd told him. "I know his schedule. He doesn't trust anyone, he'll have made no copies of anything. He keeps hard copies, originals only, in his personal safe." 

He'd gone along with her plan, adrenaline pumping, half-wild with the thrill of it, the way he always got when he sank his teeth into something good, something _really_ good. And she'd played him like a fiddle, had flirted and charmed and romanced, and he'd liked her, he'd wanted to protect her, had wanted to champion her cause. 

She'd gotten him onto Magnussen's grounds, into his personal residence, a terrifying fortress of a house he called Appledore. He'd gone snooping, and what he'd found wasn't just bad, it had been _damning._

"He—" he gasped, sitting up, grasping at the blankets that had bunched around him. "He was selling missile plans. To the highest bidder. He—we have to _stop_ him—"

"It's too late," Mycroft said, calm, though not without regret.

Magnussen had entered the room, unexpected, and John had folded himself into a closet, breathing lightly, heart pounding, sweat dripping cold down the back of his neck. Magnussen had picked up his phone, had dialed, had spoken, and John had heard _everything._ He'd recorded it, his fingers trembling against the button of his tape recorder. 

What he'd overheard had been enough to make him abandon the idea of a story, of a careful takedown of a man in a seemingly unassailable position. A transfer of information was happening, one that would put hundreds of thousands of lives at risk. And it was happening _now._

He'd taken his proof, his documents, his recordings, and he'd fled the grounds. 

"This isn't what we discussed—" Mary had protested. He'd had his foot on the gas, his car speeding through the darkness. Her eyes had been very wide. But not shocked, he realized, thinking back. They had been _calculating._

"Plans change," he'd said, only half paying attention to her. He'd needed to get to a phone.

"Stop the car," Mary had said, and he'd glanced over, surprised by the ice in her voice. There was a pistol in her hand, small, easily concealed. 

"What are you—" he asked. Shook his head, baffled, unable to reconcile it. "What's going on?"

She'd tilted her head, shrugged mildly. "Change of plan. I'm sorry, John." 

She'd pulled the trigger. 

She'd _shot_ him. 

He shook himself loose of the memory, stared hard at Mycroft. "Who is she?"

"The name is an alias. From our research, we were able to determine that she assumed the identity approximately five years ago, around the time she cut ties with her previous employer." 

"What—"

"She's an assassin, John. And a good one. We've amassed a file." 

"An assassin." 

He thought again of Mary, she of the sparkling eyes and the sharp wit. _Please help me, John, something has to be done about him._

"It appears that, among his other transgressions, Charles Magnussen has been blackmailing her into performing personal services. Illegal activities, petty thefts, intimidations. She likely approached you to help her retrieve information that would make continued efforts to do so unwise. To blackmail the blackmailer, so to speak." 

"I wanted to stop him," John said. "I needed to stop him. He was selling missile plans. He—" 

"It's too late, John," Mycroft said again. "Those plans reached the market. Years of research, ruined. Wasted." 

"Magnussen—" 

"There is no proof of his involvement. As is par for the course with such things, a plausible and convenient scapegoat was identified." 

"Who?" John asked.

"Excuse me?"

"This scapegoat. Who was he?"

Mycroft frowned, looked down at his hands, which were folded primly in his lap. "A Major James Sholto. Records showed that the plans passed through his possession. The prevailing theory is that he was careless and negligent with classified information." 

"But—"

"He was dishonourably discharged, of course. Though truly, he got off easily. Carelessness and negligence is far more palatable than high treason." 

John shut his eyes, though of those own dark days, weeks, months following his discharge from service. It had been his life. And then, suddenly, he'd been on the outside. 

It had been bad enough, returning home a so-called hero. He couldn’t imagine returning in disgrace, his life stripped from him for something he hadn't even done. 

"I want to get out of this bed," he said.

"Yes, I suspected that would be the case. Your recovery is coming along quite nicely. I've taken the liberty of hiring a rehabilitation specialist to ease your way. He'll be by this afternoon." 

*

The next two weeks passed slowly.

John threw himself into his recovery. He walked, slow, determined slogs that eventually turned into brisk jaunts. He worked himself up to a jog, then a sprint. Spent hours exploring the seemingly endless manor grounds. 

There was the overlarge main house, with its towers and sweeping views of the landscape. The lovely back gardens, verdant and lush. Paths carved through the woods and tall grass, bridges over babbling streams. 

Mycroft often observed him from the windows, his stern profile just faintly visible through the glass. 

He ran. He ran and he ran and he ran, feet pounding the uneven terrain. He ran and thought about Mary's face as she'd pulled the trigger, the regret in her voice incongruous to the hard look on her face. He thought about Magnussen, oily and smug in his office, casually betraying his own country. Thought of Major James Sholto, who he didn't know, and likely never would, but who'd had his life ruined because he'd been chosen from a list of likely candidates. Because Magnussen was above the law. 

"You don't feel you're overdoing it?" Mycroft asked, one afternoon, as John came up the back steps at a run, breathing hard, sweat slick on his skin. 

"I have a debt to pay," John said. "To Charles Magnussen. To Mary Morstan, whoever she really is." 

"You'll only make yourself a target," Mycroft sighed. "And after all the trouble we went through to save your life." 

"And what would you have me do?" 

"Work for me." 

He barked out a laugh, shook his head. "No." 

"Why not?"

"Because all of this?" he waved a hand around, indicating the grand manor house, the sprawling grounds. "A bit creepy, Mycroft." 

"Is it?"

"You—what, exactly? Tail me around for a while, happen upon me while I'm getting murdered—thanks for that, by the way, you couldn't have intervened _before_ I was shot in the face?—and just spirit me off to your secret lair? Have your private staff of doctors operate on me? How, exactly, was I declared dead? You need a corpse for that." 

"Medical schools have corpses in abundance. It was simply a matter of procuring one of your height and build," Mycroft said. "Morally questionable, perhaps, but not evil. All of this was for you. To save your life." 

He leaned in, breathing hard, lip curling up. "Why?"

"Because I want you to work for me." Mycroft said, infuriatingly calm. 

"If I try to leave this place, are you going to stop me?"

"You are free to go at any time."

He turned away, retreated upstairs to his room. Went to the mirror, stared hard at his unfamiliar face. Only his eyes remained unchanged, twin landmarks in alien territory. 

This was insane, he knew. The smart, rational thing to do would be to put this entire place behind him, to return home, sort out the misunderstanding regarding his identity. Get his life back. 

There was the other part of him, the part that flared up when he ran, when his muscles burned and his lungs strained. That part of him had no interest in smart or rational. He wanted _revenge,_ he wanted to look down the barrel of a gun and erase the people who had taken his life away from him. 

_Let them come after me,_ he thought. _I'll be ready._

His face, the face of a stranger, twisted and hard with anger. He breathed in, breathed out, studied his expression, searched for a faint glimmer of something familiar. 

Found nothing. 

*

In the morning he packed up his few meager belongings. Looked out the window as the sun crept over the horizon, watched the sky lighten. 

Mycroft was outside. 

John watched with mild interest as Mycroft picked his way carefully along one of the dirt paths, looking odd and out of place in his expensive suit. He glanced back at the house, once, and then vanished into the trees. 

That _something_ inside of him had awakened, the part of him that came alive when he scented a story, when he knew it was time to start scratching and digging at what lay beneath the surface. 

He dropped his bag on the floor, went down the stairs, slipped out the back door. He hesitated just for a moment, breathed in the crisp morning air, and then set off at a brisk pace down the same path he'd seen Mycroft take. 

He hung back, not wanting to be noticed. 

He tailed Mycroft for a solid twenty minutes, drawing up behind a tree as he came around a bend that opened up in a clearing. There was a building, tall, white, no windows. Mycroft went straight for it, unhesitating, disappeared through a nondescript door. 

What the _hell_ was all this about? 

He hesitated for a moment before squaring his shoulders and heading for the door. He'd been here long enough. Whatever was going on, he had a right to know. 

He pulled the door open, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn't.

He stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him. 

The room was pitch dark. An open space, cavernous, some kind of warehouse, judging by the echo of his footsteps on the ground. 

It was quiet. Very quiet. No sign of Mycroft. 

He took another hesitant step forward, hand out in front of him, feeling in the darkness for any obstacles. 

Something flickered. 

He frowned, took another step. 

A light flared up, pale blue, pulsing, dancing back and forth in the darkness. 

He braced himself, took yet another step. 

An engine roared to life, blinding headlights pinning him in place. Rubber tyres shrieked against concrete and the car came screaming towards him through the blackness. 

He flung himself aside, gasping, as the car skidded to a halt. He could see nothing beyond the headlights, shockingly bright, and that strange, pulsating blue light. 

A hum overhead, the welcome buzz of fluorescent lights clicking on. 

At once, the room was illuminated. A spacious hangar, empty but for a lone black car. 

It looked like a Trans Am. Except it—was not, exactly, like any Trans Am he'd ever seen. The sleek, sloping lines of the hood were set off by a glossy black paint job. A light bar embedded in the nose flickered, a hypnotizing pale blue. The tyres were wide, a ribbon of vivid red running along the interior flush against the glossy rims. 

"What do you think?" 

He whirled around. Mycroft was standing against the wall, arms folded, studying him. 

He frowned, looked back at the car. There was no one in the driver's seat. 

"Is that—remote controlled?" 

Mycroft did not answer him. He pushed away from the wall, approached. 

"This," he said as he drew up next to the car, placed a hand on the gleaming hood. "Is the Sherrinford-Holmes Experimental Robotic Learning and Observational Computer Kernel." 

"That's a, um, bit of a mouthful," John said. 

"SHERLOCK, for short," Mycroft said. A small smile played on his lips, some private amusement. "Like the detective stories." 

"Right," John said, and cleared his throat. He looked back at the car. "Well. It's, um, very nice." 

"It's not an ordinary car." 

"Right," he said again. "I sort of guessed that. With the—driving by itself, and all. You know it could have killed me, yeah?" 

"Oh, certainly not," Mycroft said. "Its primary function is the preservation of human life." 

"Funny. Not what I would have guessed, seeing as it came very close to running me over." 

"It was amusing itself." 

"Okay," John said, shaking his head, taking a step back. "Okay, that's—yeah, I've about had enough of this." 

"It's not polite to snoop," Mycroft said. "Sherlock here was just reminding you of that fact." 

"I'm leaving today, Mycroft," John said, firm. "I am—grateful. For all that you've done. But I need to go." 

"Oh, aren't you the least bit curious?" 

John hesitated. Glanced at the car. The blue light pulsed merrily. 

"This is the most expensive and unusual car in the world. Most would jump at the opportunity. Consider it a gift," Mycroft said. 

He was certain he would come to regret this. Still, curiosity won out, and John approached the car. He lay a tentative hand on the hood, drew it back in surprise. 

"It's—that doesn't feel like any paint I've ever—it's very smooth." 

"It's not paint," Mycroft said. "It's a molecular bonded shell."

"A what?" 

"A substance we've developed here at the Foundation," he said, looking quite pleased with himself. 

"And what, exactly, does it do?"

"See for yourself." Mycroft walked over and rummaged through a small tool chest against the wall. He came up with a hammer, held it out to John. "Give it a crack." 

John shied back from the hammer. "No, why would I—"

Mycroft lashed out, cracking the hammer against the hood of the car. It bounced harmlessly off of the surface. Not a mark left behind, not a dent, not a scratch. 

"Amazing," John said, unable to help feeling impressed. 

"Shall we?" Mycroft asked. 

John opened the driver's side door. Stopped. Stared. 

The inside resembled the cockpit of a plane, or, perhaps more aptly, a spacecraft from a science fiction film. 

"What--?" he breathed. 

"Sherlock has been engineered to be the safest, and strongest, car in the world," Mycroft said, settling into the passenger seat. "It is operated entirely by microprocessors and cannot be involved in any mishap or collision, unless, of course, ordered by its pilot." 

The steering wheel _did_ resemble a flight stick.

"Does it fly, then?" John asked. 

"No," Mycroft said. "But it _thinks._

John glanced at Mycroft, certain he was being put on. Mycroft looked placidly back at him, his expression difficult to read. 

"Whenever you're ready," he said. 

*

The car, Sherlock, whatever it was, ate up the road like it was meant for that purpose alone. 

John fought against the desire to whoop with glee. He had never driven a car that handled quite like this one, precision turns, boundless acceleration, a rush of power at his fingertips. 

They tore down the winding country roads surrounding the manor house, the speedometer creeping well past the speed limit. 

A lorry loomed ahead, hulking, lumbering, spitting black exhaust from its tailpipe. 

John stepped on the gas, grinned. Mycroft studied him from the passenger seat, brows raised. The car leapt forward, closing the distance rapidly. 

"So," John said. "If I were to keep accelerating—" 

The wheel jerked in his hands. The car sped up of its own accord, swerving into the oncoming lane, roaring past the lorry before easing back over into the proper lane. 

"CHRIST!" John shouted, grasping at the wheel. "I didn't—the car just—" 

"I told you," Mycroft said. "Sherlock's primary function is the preservation of human life. It—deduced that you were acting contrary to your best interests and, thus, had two choices. One, it could slow down, or two, it could move to pass the lorry." 

"Then why the hell didn't it slow down?" he said. "If preservation of life is its main function—it—would have been a hell of a lot safer to slow down." 

"Yes," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. He settled deeper into his seat. "Well. I'm afraid it was—showing off." 

John tilted his head back, laughed. "Come on. You're saying this car—" 

"Thinks," Mycroft said. "Reasons. Deduces. _Learns._ " 

"And shows off." 

"I'm afraid so."

They returned to the hangar at a reasonable speed, wheels kicking up dirt and gravel as he pulled to a stop. 

John gave the interior a last, admiring look before exiting. He stretched as he stood. 

"Are you sure I can't interest you in a job?" 

"I already said no," John said. 

"Very well," Mycroft said. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a small pouch, held it out. 

"What's this?"

"Your life," he said. "Identification papers. Credit cards." 

"I—" he frowned down at the documents. "John Watson. _Seriously?_ " 

"It seemed appropriate." 

"Why were you carrying this with you? You can't have known that I'd come down here—" He paused. "You did know. You knew I was watching out the window when you left this morning." 

"I'm afraid you are somewhat predictable, Mr Watson. Almost primitive in your intellect." 

John huffed out an indignant laugh. "Right. Well. My primitive intellect and I thank you for your hospitality. Have a nice life." 

He turned, made it three steps towards the door. 

"If I may," Mycroft said. 

_Don't stop,_ John told himself. 

He stopped, turned back. 

"Perhaps you could give it a week. On a trial basis. In return, I promise that the Foundation will use all of the resources at its disposal to assist in locating Ms Morstan." 

He shut his eyes, groaned. "Why?" 

"Because I believe that one man can make a difference. And I believe that you are that man." 

"What, exactly, is it that you want me to do?" 

"Nothing that you aren't already quite comfortable with," Mycroft said. "I want you to seek out injustices. Crimes. People and organizations who seem to be above the law." 

"All right," John said. "And then what?" 

"Expose them," Mycroft said. "Document them. Show the world who they really are." 

He hesitated. Looked back towards the car. 

"One week," Mycroft said. "That's all I ask." 

"Fine," John said, before he was even aware that he'd intended to speak. "One week." 

"Go ahead," Mycroft said, inclining his head towards the car. "In the packet you'll find an address and keys to a flat in central London. You may establish yourself there for the time being. I'll be in touch." 

"How?" 

"Oh," he said, and smiled. "You'll see." 

*

For the second time that day, John found himself on the open road. The engine rumbled pleasingly, and he had begun to grow accustomed to the strange steering wheel. 

He glanced away from the road briefly, gaze roaming over the myriad buttons and lights that adorned the dashboard. 

"You've got microprocessors and molecular bonded shells, but you couldn't make it easy to find the radio, could you?" he grumbled. 

"What would you like to hear?" 

He jolted in his seat, jerking the steering wheel. The car swerved in its lane, immediately corrected itself, held true. 

"Who said that?" 

"It would be preferable for you to suggest a genre," the voice said. It was a deep voice, distinctly male, crisp enunciation. "I fear I simply don't know enough about you at this juncture to provide my own suggestion, although I could certainly hazard a guess." 

"What is this—who—" John sputtered, taking his foot off of the gas. The car slowed. 

"I am equipped with a voice synthesizer that allows my logic module to communicate directly with you," the voice said. A series of dancing light bars seemed to correspond directly with the sound, and it occurred to John with no small measure of disbelief that _the car was talking to him._

"HOW ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?" 

The lights flickered. "There is no need for increased volume. I assure you that I am scanning quite satisfactorily and am, in fact, capable of picking up sounds lower than—" 

"I don't care," John said. "Shut up. Oh my god." 

He breathed out sharply through his nose, pulled over. The wheels skidded against gravel as he came to a halt but, thankfully, the car allowed him to remain in control. 

"What is going on?" 

"I told you—" 

"Who are you?"

"As you have already been informed, I am the Sherrinford-Holmes Experimental Robotic Learning and Observational Computer Kernel. Sherlock for easy reference." There was a pause. To John, it felt uncomfortably as if the car was _thinking._ "You are John Watson. Not your original name, of course. It was obviously selected to compliment mine, likely as a humourous reference to the famed detective novels, though humour is often subjective. You've recently recovered from a significant injury—"

"All right, enough. Enough!" 

The car fell silent. 

"I'm not going to—I won't drive around in a car that _talks_ at me." 

"Perhaps I should take moment to explain some of my features—" 

"Shut up," he said. His hands tightened on the wheel. "I—I don't know what to make of this. This isn't—just stay quiet. That's not an invitation for you to just—answer me, or—" he stopped, took a deep breath. "This is what's going to happen. I'm going to pull back onto the road. You are not going to speak. Are we clear?" 

"May I speak to answer that?" 

He bit his lip, shut his eyes. "Just—stay shut up. I'm going to have to speak with Mycroft about having this feature turned off." 

"My logic module is not a _feature_ it's—" 

"Sherlock," he said, and felt a surge of embarrassment at addressing a car directly by its name.

"If you require silence, I will, of course, comply. But may I suggest first that you put the car into auto-cruise mode, for safety's sake? Judging by your current demeanor and your recent injury, I am fairly certain that you are irritable due to extreme fatigue, and I fear—"

John reached a hand out and stabbed at a random button, relieved when music flooded from the speaker. Loud music. Rock. He reached out for a dial, turned it up. 

Sherlock made a noise that could only be described as a sigh. 

John tensed, waited for him to speak. He said nothing. 

After a long moment, John nodded decisively. He took the wheel, pulled back onto the road. 

Though Sherlock did not speak again, he could not shake the distinct feeling of being watched.


	2. The Case of the Pink Knight (1/2)

*

John blinked awake, disoriented, the car still travelling smoothly and comfortably down the highway. 

"Mary," he said, gasped it, the gunshot still echoing in his ears. 

His hands jerked on the wheel and he startled, awareness settling in. 

"Jesus," he said, and looked around. Sherlock must have sensed when he'd fallen asleep and had quietly switched over to auto-cruise. 

"Not quite," Sherlock said. 

He twitched in his seat. The voice was disconcerting. "You took over." 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "You fell asleep. It seemed prudent." 

"Right," he said, awkward. He cleared his throat, rubbed at his eyes.

"We're an hour outside of London," Sherlock said. "Our final destination is 221B Baker Street. May I inquire about Mary?"

"What?" 

"Mary. You spoke the name while you were asleep. I can only assume that you were dreaming. It seemed to cause you distress. I was monitoring your vital signs, and—" 

"Stop," John said. "That's just not—no. No. Just stop right there." 

Sherlock fell silent. 

John was struck with the insane thought that, perhaps, he'd _offended_ the car.

"She's the—um," he frowned, scratched at the back of his neck. "She's the cause of the. Um. Recent injury." 

"Ah," Sherlock said. 

They continued on in silence. John watched the steering wheel shift minutely with no small level of unease. He tightened his grip.

"Switch it back to me, please," he said. "The—auto cruise. Or whatever. Turn it off."

"Of course," Sherlock said. 

There was a beep, and a light lit up on the dashboard. The strange sensation of being _piloted_ disappeared. He nudged at the wheel experimentally. The car reacted appropriately, shifting in its lane. He was back in control.

Good.

"You didn't wake me up," he said, after a moment. 

"Pardon?"

"When I fell asleep. You didn't wake me. You just took over." 

"You had directed me to be quiet," Sherlock said. "Actually, to be more specific, you directed me to _shut up._ " 

"You're talking now." 

Silence. 

After a moment, Sherlock spoke. He sounded cautious. "You began speaking when you awakened. My programming indicates that it would be considered—rude. Not to respond."

"Your programming." 

"Ye-es," Sherlock said, drawing out the word, still sounding uncertain. "Would you prefer that I remain, as you put it, _shut up_? If I may, I have a strong preference—" 

"You have a preference." John shook his head, flexed his hands against the wheel. He felt as though he were still sleeping, still dreaming. None of this could possibly be real.

"Of course I have a preference. I'm a learning and observational system. Observation may be conducted silently, but I find learning to be much more beneficial when conducted as an interactive process. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Can't say I've really thought about it," John said. 

Sherlock, it seemed, was gaining steam. He might never shut up again, John thought, half-hysterically. 

"We'll be stationed at the Foundation's Baker Street location, right in the heart of London. I was quite pleased when I received our coordinates. It's dreadfully boring in the countryside." 

"Yes, it is," John agreed automatically, thinking of the endless winding paths surrounding the manor house where he'd spent his recuperation. Then he frowned. "What would you know about being bored? You're a car." 

Sherlock sighed. _Sighed._

"I'm a learning and observational system. Honestly, John, what do you suppose _happens_ when I've learned and observed all there is to know about a specific area?" 

"You—go to sleep? Take yourself out for a nice car wash? How the hell should I know?"

"You lack imagination," Sherlock sighed again. 

"Maybe we'll take a break from the whole—talking—thing," John said. 

Another sigh.

*

A little over an hour later, John found himself pulling up against the kerb in front of a row of buildings on Baker Street. 

(Sherlock, upon arrival in London, had attempted once more to wrest control of the steering. "I prefer to do my own navigating, thanks," John had growled in response. He'd pretended not to hear Sherlock's miffed little noises each time he missed a turn.)

Sherlock rumbled to a stop under a red awning advertising a place called Speedy's, which, at first glance, appeared to be some sort of auto supply shop. An odd thing for this part of town. 

Sherlock honked his horn. Twice.

"Hey—" John snapped. "I'll be the one to—" 

A garage door in the side of the building groaned as it began to lift. Sherlock switched to auto cruise and pulled in off of the street, his wheels bumping up over the kerb. The door rattled shut behind them. 

"What the—" 

"Sherlock!"

John paused looked up. A young woman in a mechanic's jumpsuit was hurrying towards them, a big smile on her face. 

"Ah, Molly, excellent," Sherlock said. "I'll need an oil change and a top up. Perhaps you can check the air pressure on my rear driver's side tyre? It feels a bit off." 

"Erm," the woman—Molly—said. "Okay." She peered in through the windshield, squinted at John. "You must be John! Mycroft let us know you'd be arriving today."

"Um—" John said. 

"Molly Hooper," she said. She stepped back, a bit awkwardly, as he opened the door to get out. He leaned forward to shake her hand. "I keep Sherlock running properly. He's an incredibly complex piece of machinery. Um—" 

"Complex," John said. "Right. This is—this is just a temporary arrangement. I assume Mycroft told you that, yeah?" 

"Of course," she said. Her smile was a little strained. "Well. Um. Let me show you around." 

Behind the façade of the shop was a meticulous and well-appointed garage. It was clear that Molly took a good deal of pride in her work. 

Sherlock rumbled his engine behind them. "Pardon, Molly? My fuel top up?" 

"Oh, be patient," she said over her shoulder. She did not seem put off in the slightest at being addressed (impatiently) by a talking car. 

"Have you, erm, known Sherlock long?" John asked, cringing at himself.

"Almost a year now," Molly said. "The Foundation has been working on his development for a long time. They had a few missteps, originally, but—" she frowned, wrinkled up her nose. "Well. No need to talk about that. He's the final result. A wonder of engineering." 

"Right," John said. He cleared his throat, looked around again. It was all—very impressive. Very impressive. _Why me?_ he couldn't help but wonder.

"Your rooms are through here—" Molly said.

"Molly." Sherlock's voice, impatient, from behind them. 

"Just a minute!" she said. She looked at John. "He's normally much more polite."

John raised his brows. 

"I think he goes a little mad, out there in the country," she said, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Not enough to do."

"Molly!"

"Oh just—" she huffed, pointed towards a door near the back. "Go on through there and up the stairs. Mrs Hudson is expecting you." 

He smiled tightly as she turned away. He could hear her grumbling good-naturedly at Sherlock as she clattered around amidst her tools. 

He went through the door, ascended a narrow staircase which opened up into a cosy flat. He stood for a moment, getting his bearings. 

There was a large sitting room, with two tall windows that overlooked Baker Street. It was furnished; a leather sofa and a pair of overstuffed armchairs. The walls were papered, busy prints in bold colours. 

Off of the sitting room was a small kitchen, and a narrow hall leading down to what he presumed must be the toilet and bedroom. 

"Nice," he said out loud. It was comfortable. A bit cluttered, but he could get used to it. 

"Make yourself at home," Sherlock said. 

He jumped, looked around.

"My scanners are capable of obtaining readings within a three kilometer range, accounting for obstructions." 

"Where are you—" he peered around the room. There was a wristwatch on the counter. He picked it up. 

"Ah, excellent, you've located your comlink." 

Sherlock's voice was coming out of the watch. He set it down on the counter. 

"You'll want to put that on. I'll be able to more effectively monitor your vitals." 

My—" John took a steadying breath. "You've no need to be monitoring my vitals." 

Silence from Sherlock. 

"Sherlock." 

"You should wear your comlink at all times. It will enable us to communicate." 

"Well. There's a crying need for that, I'm sure," John said. He fastened the watch around his wrist anyway, shaking his head. 

There were footsteps behind him. 

"Oh!" a woman's voice.

He turned around, blinked. An older woman hovered in the doorway, smiling at him. 

"You must be John Watson," she said. "We've been looking forward to your arrival. Oh, it's so _nice_ to finally have someone for Sherlock. He gets so restless. It's something of an ordeal."

"Erm," he said.

"Feeling all right, then? Nasty business, that. Gunshots." She shook her head, frowned. "They fixed you up nicely, though. Handsome face." She patted his cheek. 

"I—"

"Well, make yourself at home, dear. I suppose you'll be here a while." 

"It's temporary," he said.

"Oh, of course it is," she smiled at him, not particularly convincingly, before flitting from the room. 

*

It was strange, being back in London. He had once loved the sights and sounds and smells of the city, had once considered it home. 

He was home again, in a way, but he wore a stranger's face. 

John Hamish was dead. His friends, his coworkers, his sister, everyone who'd ever known him had mourned him and moved on. 

At the manor house, he had been focused on his recovery. He had worked hard, had slept well. 

Now, he drifted. He found it difficult to relax. 

"Your vitals indicate distress," Sherlock said from the wristwatch he'd set on the nightstand.

He sighed, rubbed his eyes. He thought it was probably a bad sign that the sound of Sherlock's deep, curious voice in the darkness hadn't startled him. 

"I can't sleep. First night in a new place, you know." He paused. "I guess maybe you don't." 

"I am capable of powering down into a resting state," Sherlock said. "I prefer not to. I use this time to explore areas of interest." 

He sat up against the headboard, fluffing the pillow behind him. "Areas of interest? You mean you—go out? Into London?" 

"No," Sherlock said, and there was a hint of something resentful in his voice. "My programming is quite clear on the fact that I'm not to roam. But my memory banks have been loaded with a great deal of information that is meant to be useful to our work. I take this time to catalogue it, so that I may easily reference it in the future." 

"Oh," John said. He wasn't sure what, exactly, to make of that. 

"For example, I come equipped with a chemical analyzer. This enables me to determine the composition and origin of any substance. But I need a framework against which to measure it. Take tobacco ash, for instance. Molly has helpfully been providing me with cigarettes from various known brands, so that I may analyze the precise chemical composition of their remains when burnt. You'd be surprised at the level of variety. For instance—" 

John yawned, pressed his hand against his mouth. Shifted against the pillow. 

Sherlock hesitated, seeming suddenly uncertain. He pressed on. "For instance. Ash from—" 

"You make Molly smoke cigarettes and then drop them into your chemical analyzer?" 

"I don't make her _smoke_ them, she simply puts them on a window ledge to burn down to the appropriate length. Did you know that ash from the—"

"Use that data a lot, do you?" 

"Analysis of ash found at a crime scene could narrow it down to a specific brand and flavour. One could, presumably, then match the brand of cigarette to a suspect." 

"Fair point," John said, and yawned again. Sherlock's voice was soothing, soporific. "Go on." 

"Your vital signs indicate that you are falling asleep." 

He chuckled. "Yeah. Yes. Um—this is helping." 

"Conversation covering interesting subjects should induce a feeling of wakefulness. This is contrary to—" 

"Sherlock. Tobacco ash is not an interesting subject. At all."

Silence. Heavy, weighted. 

"That's not me telling you to shut up," he added. "That's me telling you to go on." 

"Even if you fall asleep?"

"Especially if I fall asleep." 

A pause. When Sherlock began again, his voice was hesitant. "Analysis of ash from a popular brand frequently favoured by—" 

John smiled, shut his eyes. It was good, he thought, if a bit weird. And if he didn't dwell on it too much, it hardly seemed weird at all, really. 

*

"So," John said, pouring himself a cup of tea. "I promised the Foundation a week of my life. What, exactly, am I expected to _do?_ "

He was in good spirits. He'd slept well, lulled under by Sherlock's sonorous drone. 

Mrs Hudson glanced at him, pursed her lips. "Oh, I'm not certain, dear. Have you tried asking Sherlock?" 

He frowned. "Why would I ask the car?" 

"Why indeed?" Sherlock said, dryly, through his comlink. 

"Don't exclude him, he gets stroppy," Mrs Hudson said. "Why don't you take him out for a drive? See if you find anything interesting?" 

"Doubtful," Sherlock sighed. "I've scanned the surrounding area. Boring." 

"Well, there you have it. I won't be going out for a drive because London is boring." 

"Oh go on," she said. "It's a lovely day." 

He finished his tea and made his way downstairs to the garage. Sherlock sat, gleaming, near the doors. His light strip pulsed in recognition, pale blue, bright. 

"Nice of you to join me," Sherlock said. 

John cleared his throat, glanced around. There was no sign of Molly.

"You got your—oil change?" he asked. "Everything you needed?"

"Yes." 

"So. What's the—what's the protocol, here?" 

"You assume I have an answer for you?"

"You've had an answer for everything so far," John said. "Why should this be anything different?" He softened his words with a smile, and then wondered if that mattered, if Sherlock could _see_ him in any way, of if he simply reacted to tone of voice. 

He wondered why he cared, suddenly, about possibly hurting a car's feelings. Why it didn't seem entirely laughable that a car could have feelings at all. 

"You didn't take the opportunity to explore all of my features," Sherlock said. "During our drive to London. As you fell asleep." He popped the 'p,' the sound disdainful. 

John studied him for a moment. "What else can you do?" 

"I come equipped with a multitude of performance modes, as well as several analytical functions." Sherlock paused. "I mentioned my chemical analyzer. My anamorphic scanner is—"

"Your what?"

The blue lights pulsed again. 

"This bar of lights is not an aesthetic choice," Sherlock said. "It functions, essentially, as my eyes. I'm capable of scanning in all visual wavelengths, as well as switching over to X-Ray and infrared." 

"Oh," John said, and scratched at the back of his neck. "So you can—see me, then?"

"Essentially, yes." 

He shifted where he stood, glanced around. "What else can you do?"

"I've an olfactory sensor that allows me to conduct atmospheric sampling. In essence, I possess a highly acute sense of smell. I've a microwave jammer that allows me to interfere with electronic signals. I've been equipped with a comlink that allows direct communication with Foundation Headquarters. In addition, I believe I've mentioned that I have the capacity to scan vital signs—I've also been programmed to analyze voice stress levels." 

"Wow," John said. He cleared his throat, looked around again. It was strange, standing alone in a garage, speaking to a car. It wasn't the sort of thing he could get used, to really. 

"Are you going to continue standing there while I detail my finer points, or would you like to go for a drive?" 

"I thought London was boring," John teased.

Sherlock didn't respond. His blue light pulsed. 

"Perhaps," he said, finally. "I spoke hastily. Remaining cooped up in this garage would be infinitely more distressing." 

"Then let's go for a drive," John said. 

The front door swung open in invitation. He settled inside, took a good look around at all of the blinking lights, the knobs and levers and screens he couldn't even begin to comprehend. 

"I'm driving," he clarified. 

Sherlock sighed, but made no argument. 

*

"So," John said, as they eased into traffic. "What else can you do?" 

"My chemical analyzer—"

"I'm thinking more performance, and less analysis," John said.

Another sigh. "I suppose I'm not surprised you'd be more interested in my transport than my intellectual capabilities." 

John shook his head, bemused. He changed lanes to swerve around a slow-moving cab. 

"I just thought you'd be a little more inclined to show off," he said. 

Sherlock scoffed. "Did Mycroft say that? He did, didn't he? That sounds like something he would say." 

"World's most advanced automobile, and you want to talk about tobacco ash." 

"I can do a good deal more than analyze tobacco ash." 

John grinned, leaned forward in his seat. "Show me." 

There was a silence, weighted, as though Sherlock were considering his options. When he spoke again, John thought he detected a faint hint of mirth. 

"We'll begin with the Turbo Boost." 

"The what—WHOA!" 

Sherlock _jumped._

There was no other word for it. One moment they were cruising slowly up behind another cab, and the next, they had vaulted clear over it. Behind them, horns blared. 

They hit the ground with a jolt, and Sherlock accelerated. 

"WHAT WAS THAT?" 

"I told you," Sherlock said. "Turbo Boost."

"How did you—" 

"Rocket boosters mounted behind my front tyres. I am able to clear most obstacles, within reason." 

John shook his head again, disbelieving. He glanced in the rear view mirror, at the traffic receding behind them. 

"I would advise against trying out Super Pursuit Mode in densely populated areas. I am capable of reaching speeds approaching seven hundred kilometers per hour. Even with auto-cruise engaged, I don't feel it would be safe or appropriate to accelerate to such speeds given our current terrain." 

"Seven hundred—ah, no. I'll just. Um. Defer to your judgement on that." 

"Mm," Sherlock said agreeably, and then tilted up onto two wheels to slide past a lorry. "Ski Mode." 

"Jesus," John said. 

"Not quite." 

"You've used that line before," John said. Smiled. 

A screen embedded in the dashboard flickered to life, and Mycroft frowned back at him. 

John jolted in his seat a bit. Cleared his throat. Schooled his face into an expression he hoped conveyed an appropriate level of seriousness and professionalism. 

"Hello, John," Mycroft said. "Enjoying your drive?" 

Sherlock slowed down to a reasonable speed. 

"Just—getting comfortable with all of the features," John said. 

"Yes," Mycroft said. "I've been tracking your progress. You are aware that Sherlock is equipped with global positioning? It enables us to trace your whereabouts, should you find yourselves in—" he paused, smiled thinly. "Any trouble." 

"Erm," John glanced away from the screen, face heating. They had not, exactly, been inconspicuous in their mad dash through London. 

"However," Mycroft said. "That's not why I'm calling. Our scanners have picked up police activity in your area. It appears you're in a position to intervene." 

"Police activity?" 

"A murder suspect, in fact," Mycroft said. "Fleeing the scene. Police are in pursuit, but have been unable to intercept. The suspect is in a black cab. It appears he knows the area quite well." 

John rolled down the window, strained to hear. He could make out faint sirens over the steady hum of traffic and city noise. 

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"Scanning," he said. And then. "Ah, got it. The cab is moving westward at a high rate of speed. If we take the next left, we should be able to catch up." 

"Let's go, then," John said.

He hit the gas. Sherlock leapt forward, engine roaring. They swerved around a lorry, weaved through two mopeds, and sped through an intersection. John glanced ahead.

"The lights are all green. How are—" he hesitated. "Is that you?" 

"I am able to beam a signal to traffic lights. I'm clearing a path," Sherlock said.

They sped up. John found himself pressed back into the leather seat. They roared around another curve, Sherlock handling it with astonishing precision given the high speeds. 

As they whipped through traffic, John caught sight of a black cab, driving much too fast, just ahead. 

"There," he said.

"My scanners have it," Sherlock said. "Two occupants. Driver and passenger. Passenger vitals are—" he paused. "Passenger appears to be deceased." 

He accelerated further, tipping up on two wheels again to scoot neatly past a cluster of wide-eyed pedestrians. They pulled up directly behind the cab, Sherlock's long nose just brushing its rear bumper. 

"I'm going to send a signal to jam his engine," Sherlock said. "Just through this intersection we should find ourselves in a less populated area. Primarily derelict warehouses. There will be little risk to civilian safety should the driver lose control." 

He held close on the cab's tail. As the populated streets around them began to drop away, replaced by degrading buildings and empty pavement, Sherlock's sensors blinked. 

Ahead of them, the cab jolted, shuddered, swerved.

Sherlock roared around it, skidding to a halt mid-street. The swerving, shuddering cab struck them broadside as it rolled to a stop, nose crumpling up against Sherlock's armour. 

John leapt out of the car. 

The cabbie was already struggling out of his dented door, frantic, desperate. He hit the ground running and John tackled him, driving him down into the pavement. There were sirens, rising now, approaching fast. 

"I didn't do it!" the cabbie shouted, his voice muffled against the ground. "I didn't kill her!" 

He was a small man, middle-aged, grey-haired and unassuming. His voice had gone quite high with fright. 

John glanced over his shoulder at the cab. He could just make out a form, slumped in the back seat against the window, unmoving. 

The sirens were screaming now, nearly upon them. The sound of tyres on pavement, slamming doors. 

"I didn't do it!" the cabbie shouted again, as John leaned back to let the police take over. 

He backed away, went to stand near Sherlock. His heart was pounding, blood rushing in his veins.

"You all right?" he asked. He glanced at Sherlock's side, where the cab had impacted. There was not a dent, not a scratch, not a flake of paint out of place.

"John," Sherlock said. His voice was low, nearly a whisper. "Readings of the driver's vital signs and stress levels indicate confusion, panic—" he hesitated. "I think he may be telling the truth." 

"Hey—" one of the officers glanced over. "Who are you?" 

"Concerned citizen," John said, edging backwards.

"We should go," Sherlock said. "Mycroft has been attempting to smooth the way with law enforcement—essentially to set up the Sherrinford-Holmes Foundation as an outside consulting service, but the idea has not been particularly well-received in practice." 

"Right," John said. "No need to tell me twice." 

He slipped back into the driver's seat. 

As they drove off, he spared a concerned glance in the rear view mirror. The cabbie had been cuffed, looked to still be arguing. 

_Confusion,_ Sherlock had said. _Panic._

John thought it likely that most people, about to be arrested for murder, might panic. That in and of itself was not an indicator of guilt. Still—

"I take it you were able to offer your services?" Mycroft piped up from the screen. He was watching John curiously, his keen eyes narrowed.

"Um. Yes. Actually, yes. Got the situation all under control," John said. 

"Excellent." 

Sherlock glided smoothly through traffic. 

John watched their progress for a moment before returning his attention to the screen. "Is there—are you able to get any additional information? On the arrest?" 

"Something stand out to you?" Mycroft asked. 

"Maybe," John said. "Probably nothing. But—best to be sure, yeah?" 

"Indeed," Mycroft said. He smiled again, one of his thin, bloodless smiles. "I'll see what we can find out." 

"Thanks," he said, but the screen had already gone dark. 

*

"Jennifer Wilson," Sherlock announced, nearly two hours later. 

John, who had been sitting at the kitchen table eating a bit of soup, startled and slopped a spoonful down the front of his shirt. 

"What?" he asked, distracted, standing up and swiping at himself with a napkin. 

"Jennifer Wilson. The victim," Sherlock spoke crisply.

"How did you—did Mycroft get in touch with you?" 

"I've been monitoring police channels. I've also gained access to New Scotland Yard's records." 

"That's—slightly alarming," John said. He sat back down. "All right. Jennifer Wilson." 

"Police received several emergency calls relating to a probable kidnapping. Multiple witnesses reported a distraught woman pounding on the window of a cab." 

"Christ," John said. "That poor woman." 

"Curious," Sherlock said. 

"What is?" 

"Reports indicated the cabbie pulled over. He opened the back door, witnesses describe a brief struggle. At this point, several bystanders attempted to intervene. The driver got back into his cab and fled at a high rate of speed." 

"With the victim still in the car," John spoke flatly, thinking of the slumped form he'd glimpsed. She'd been wearing pink. A vivid, vibrant colour. 

"Clearly," Sherlock said. 

"Well that's—it seems fairly clear cut," John said, cautiously. "Terrible. But—" 

"The victim was a reporter," Sherlock said. "Front end media. Angling for an anchor position. Reports indicate that she and this particular cabbie – Hope, his name is—had built up something of a rapport over the last few months." 

"Mm," John said. A picture was forming in his mind, unpleasant, distressing. "So he killed her." 

"Not necessarily," Sherlock said. 

"What makes you so sure?" 

"I can't speak with complete certainty," Sherlock said. "But my analysis of Hope—" 

"But what else could have possibly happened? If there were another explanation, why wouldn't he have sought help? Why flee?" 

"Why, indeed," Sherlock mused. 

*

Sherlock did not keep him awake musing on tobacco ash, or London traffic patterns, or anything else. His wristwatch, set carefully on the nightstand, remained conspicuously silent. 

He had felt a rush. Roaring through traffic like that, the world slipping by at speeds much too fast to be safe (regardless of Sherlock's insistence on his superior programming.) Chasing down a criminal. Tackling him to the ground. 

He couldn't deny it. It had been a rush the likes of which he hadn't felt since the army. Not even at his highest points writing for the paper (and oh, he'd been _good_ at that, he'd _liked_ it) had he felt quite that same flood of adrenaline. 

It worried him. How much he'd enjoyed it.

 _A woman is dead,_ he reminded himself. 

And yet. 

Sherlock, tipping improbably up onto two wheels, sliding through tight spots and traffic with all of the grace of an ice skater. 

There was something intoxicating about it. A siren call. He wanted to feel that rush again. 

Perhaps Mycroft's offer—employment with the Foundation. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing. 

"Shut up," Sherlock said, his voice loud in the dark quiet of his bedroom. 

John groaned, rubbed his eyes. "I didn't say anything." 

"You were thinking. It's annoying." 

"I'm going to mute you." 

"If you were planning on doing that, you'd have done so hours ago." 

"Right," John said. He did not, exactly, want to admit that he'd been hoping for a repeat of the previous night's drowsy, one-sided conversation. He cleared his throat. "You've been quiet. What have you been up to?" 

"Thinking."

"And now you're—done thinking?" 

"I'm never done thinking, John. That would be terribly inefficient." 

"No need to act like a dick," he said. "You're the one who woke me up to chat." 

"I didn't wake you up." 

"It's the middle of the night." 

"Be that as it may, your vitals clearly indicated wakefulness. Your heartrate and respiration were both well above your baseline levels for sleep." 

"All right, all right, fine. Dick."

"There's no need for profanity." 

"There's a need, trust me." 

"Has something about today's events caused you distress?" 

John huffed again, rolled over so he was closer to the nightstand. "Oh, I don't know. Possibly the dead woman?" 

"Interesting," Sherlock said, and paused. "You—didn't get particularly close to the corpse." 

"No it wasn't the—just the idea of it. Thinking you're safe, you know? Public transportation. And then to have something like that happen—" he frowned, shook his head, even though Sherlock couldn't see. No doubt he could deduce his movements through the rustling of fabric. Or something. 

"Ah," Sherlock said. 

John rolled over again, restless, uncomfortable. "What thoughts were keeping you awake?" 

"My thought processes are hardly comparable—"

"Sherlock." 

A sigh. 

"Are you familiar with Dr Culverton Smith?" 

John thought for a moment. It didn't sound familiar. "No. Should I be?" 

"He's a fairly prominent research physician," Sherlock said. "Pharmaceuticals, primarily. Experimental drugs. Claims to be on the verge of finding a cure for most modern diseases." 

"Sounds—ambitious." 

"Jennifer Wilson recently published an article that was—highly critical of Dr Smith." 

"Critical how?" 

"She claimed that several of his recent successes were outright fabrications." 

"That's a bold statement to make," John said. "I assume she had proof?" 

"A source," Sherlock said. There was a smile in his voice, a breathless tug of excitement. "An _insider._ Someone within Culverton's notoriously closed ranks was feeding her information." 

_Please help me, John. Something has to be done about him._ Mary, with her pleading eyes and her file folders full of information. Mary, playing him perfectly, steering him to Magnussen's door.

Mary, with her gun pointed at his face. Pulling the trigger. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice, oddly concerned.

John rubbed at his face, his new face, still so strange and unfamiliar. He was surprised to find dampness on his cheeks. 

"That's how I was—" he said, his voice barely a whisper in the darkness. He cleared his throat, tried again. "You think he had something to do with it, don't you? Smith?" 

"I think it's worth pursuing," Sherlock said. After a moment, he added, softer. "Don't you?" 

John thought again of Mary, her finger tightening on the trigger. _Change of plan,_ she'd said. _I'm sorry, John._

He thought of Jennifer Wilson, a sad slumped form in a pink coat. Perhaps simply a victim of a random crime, but possibly, _possibly—_

Possibly something else entirely. Something that should be exposed, brought to light.

"Yes," he said, his voice very firm. Unhesitating. "Yes, I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed, so if you notice a typo or inconsistency, please feel free to point it out!


	3. The Case of the Pink Knight (2/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as it seems I can't help but write things that are infinitely longer and more detailed than my initial intention, I've fallen short of my planned weekly posting schedule. Oops. My chapter count has also increased by one. I _am_ hoping to get the remainder of this finished up and posted soon. 
> 
> In any case, here's another ridiculous bit of 80s flavored Knight Rider fun!

*

"TD-12," Sherlock said. 

John paused, mug of tea halfway to his lips. He set it back down on the table. Looked at his comlink, though he knew Sherlock could not see him. 

"What's that, then?"

"TD-12. It's what Culverton Smith's labs are hard at work developing. And what Rachel Wilson was attempting to expose as unsafe." 

"Ah," John said, returning to his tea. "You've been busy." 

"You've been sleeping," Sherlock's voice was slightly petulant. "Mycroft uploaded a large quantity of files to my database. I've been perusing them." 

"All right," John said. "So, this drug—"

"TD-12."

"TD-12," John amended with a sigh. "What does it do?" 

"Enhancement," Sherlock said. 

John choked on his tea, set the mug back down on the table. He cleared his throat. 

"Enhancement of mental acuity, to be more precise," Sherlock said. "Smith claims that his drug affects neural processing. He's calling it the genius drug."

"Is that even possible?"

"All of my attempts to access additional detail on the drug's composition have been blocked." Sherlock paused. "But there is a certain amount of interest surrounding its development. Extremely keen interest, in fact. From both private investors and government. Clinical trials are showing promising, well—not just promising, actually, I'd say _exciting—_ results. There's a good deal of money tied up in this. If this drug goes to market, Culverton Smith stands to make billions overnight. Media coverage has been overwhelmingly positive." 

"Except for Rachel Wilson." 

"Except for her, yes," Sherlock said. "A lone voice of dissent. Rachel Wilson was quite intent on exposing some rather dangerous side-effects linked to the drug. Memory loss, hallucinations, violent, erratic behavior, even death." 

"Side effects," John repeated, discomfited. "That's. Um. Quite the list."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. "Though she was the only one making that claim."

"Well. She and her supposed informant." 

"I've looked into that," Sherlock said. "We knew that Rachel Wilson claimed she had a source within Smith's inner circle. Someone willing to talk to her. And as Rachel wound up dead, it seemed likely that a similar fate befell her source." 

"And if it didn't? Maybe he doesn't know who talked. There could be someone out there, right now, in danger for—" 

"It's too late, John. Culverton Smith's daughter, Faith, was killed in an accident two days ago." 

John blinked. Looked down at his empty tea mug. Blinked again. "Wait. His daughter?" 

"She worked very closely with him. She was a highly respected research physician in her own right." 

"You think his daughter was the leak? And he—what, had her killed? His own daughter?" 

"I think it would be foolish to discount the possibility, simply because you find it distasteful." 

"It's more than distasteful, Sherlock, it's abhorrent." 

"The fact remains that a person known to be investigating Smith's work _and_ a member of his trusted inner circle are both dead. I'd call it a coincidence, but the universe is rarely so lazy." 

"All right," John said. "It's worth looking into. But—"

Sherlock sighed, an impatient sound. "Are you _done_ with your eating and sleeping and whatever else it is that you need to waste time on in the mornings?"

John scoffed, looked down at his mug. Contemplated refilling it, out of spite. "What does it matter to you?" 

"Because I'd like to take a trip past Smith's lab."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?" John asked, but he was already standing up, reaching for his jacket.

*

"You said that TD-12 caused erratic behavior," John said, as they slipped easily through the heavy London traffic. 

"Allegedly," Sherlock said. "According to Rachel Wilson, at least." 

"Well," John said, and then stopped. 

"Well?"

He cleared his throat. "Well. Witnesses saw Jennifer Wilson screaming and pounding on the window of the cab before she died. They described a struggle with the driver. Now, what you told me was that she'd gotten friendly with this driver. They were familiar."

"Yeees," Sherlock said, the word drawn out, uncertain. 

"What if—" He stopped, cleared his throat again. "What if she was under the influence? Acting out against a perceived threat. And the struggle that witnesses saw—if he really didn't kill her, then maybe he was trying to help her." 

"Hm," Sherlock said. "That's—hm. That's not a bad hypothesis." 

"See? More than one of us can do the thinking." 

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." 

John chuckled to himself, patted the steering wheel. 

"Imagine if TD-12 turned out to be exactly what Smith claims," Sherlock said. "The ability to enhance your thinking at will. I can see the appeal—"

"How? You're a computer."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. It was not a petulant silence. It seemed more like one of consideration.

"My processing speed is unparalleled," Sherlock said. "It would be marvelous if everyone were capable of such efficient thought, though, perhaps, such a development would render me obsolete. Still, one cannot object to the betterment of the human race." 

John thought there was something sad in Sherlock's voice, faint, easily missed. He'd only known Sherlock for a short time (and there was a still a part of him that objected, quite strongly, to the idea that one could _know_ a car), but it was more than obvious that Sherlock took some measure of pride in his unique status. 

"One of a kind," John said, patting the steering wheel again.

Sherlock took a hard right turn, cutting off a taxi. 

"What—"

"You'll need a new suit." 

"A what? Now?"

"Yes. It would be best if you approached Smith as a potential investor. You'll need to earn his confidence, get your hands on a sample so I can run it through my chemical analyzer. Once I'm able to examine the drug's chemical composition, I'll be able to ascertain whether it's capable of doing what he claims." 

"He's not just going to _hand over_ a sample of his top secret drug," John said.

"Hm." Sherlock seemed to consider that. "How fast can you run?"

"Sherlock." 

"Assuming you can get through security, I am capable of reaching speeds of up to—"

"No. Nope. Absolutely not." 

"Could be fun." 

He found himself smiling in spite of himself. "It really couldn’t." 

"But—"

"New plan," John said. "What if I approached as a reporter? Pretended that Rachel Wilson had shared information with me?" 

"If Smith was behind her death, he'd feel compelled to take action," Sherlock said. His voice was speculative, almost admiring.

"You have to admit, it's a better plan than stealing a sample and making a run for it." 

"I don't _have_ to admit anything," Sherlock said. And then, after a long pause, added: "Mycroft will provide you with press credentials."

John grinned, tightened his grip on the wheel. "Let me drive." 

*

It was strange, sliding back into his old familiar role as an investigative journalist. The notepad in his back pocket, pen at the ready. Hair slicked back, a suit that was nice but not _too_ nice. 

He used to be good at it. He could gain access to just about anywhere by smiling at the secretaries, turning up the charm. And then, once he found his in—

His editor had once described him as a bulldog. Once he sank his teeth into a story, he didn't let go. 

It had been a good life. The perfect life for someone like him, fresh out of military service and anxious to be of use. He'd liked his job. He'd _loved_ his job.

Until Mary Morstan had put a bullet in his face. 

The memory soured some of his good mood, curdled the adrenaline that had begun coursing through his veins. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice, through his comlink. 

"Shh," he said. "Once I'm inside, you can't talk to me." 

"Yes, John, I know," Sherlock said. "But you're not inside yet, and my scan is showing an increase in your blood pressure. Is something wrong?" 

"No," John said. He grit his teeth. "Stop scanning me." 

"But—"

"Sherlock. Let me do this. I'm good at this. This is—this is what I'm good at." 

_This is what I'm supposed to do,_ he thought without speaking. _This is the life that I should be leading right now. Not whatever farfetched nonsense that Mycroft Holmes is proposing._

A long pause. And then, as if reluctant, Sherlock spoke in a low voice. "Very well." 

John waited a moment longer, but nothing more was said. He glanced behind him, scanned the street until he spotted Sherlock, parked along the kerb some ways away. The distinctive blue light pulsed. 

Not the most inconspicuous car in London, for sure. Sherlock would likely have attracted a crowd of admirers by the time John emerged from Smith's building. 

A week. He'd promised Mycroft a week. And if he did some good in that week, well, that was an added bonus. 

He went in through the front doors, walked across a marble-floored lobby like he owned the place. Went straight for the reception desk, leaned against it, pinned the secretary with his most effective smile. 

"John Watson here to see Culverton Smith." 

She smiled tentatively at him, and then frowned. Worried at her lower lip. "Do you have an appointment? I'm afraid Dr Smith is very busy, and won't be able to see you if he's not expecting you." 

"He's going to want to see me." 

"Sir, I—"

"Tell him I'm with the _Times._ A colleague of mine, Rachel Wilson, recently passed away. But she told me something very interesting before that happened. I think it's—well, between you and me—I think it's in Dr Smith's best interest to hear what I have to say. Before my employer does."

She stared for a moment. Blinked. Nodded. Reached for the phone with a motion that managed to be hesitant and rushed all at once.

Smith made his employees nervous. Very nervous.

Interesting. 

"Not bad, John," Sherlock murmured. 

John clamped a hand over his comlink, cleared his throat loudly. Glanced around the lobby to see if anyone was watching him. 

"Yes sir," the receptionist said into the phone. Her voice trembled. "The _Times,_ sir." She paused, looked up at one of the security cameras in the far corner. "Um. Six months. Yes. All right." 

She hung up, looked across the desk at John. 

"He'll see you," she said, her voice flat. And then: "I've worked here for six months." 

"Er—" he said, followed her gaze to the camera, then looked back at her face. "All right."

"Six months," she said again. She stood up, pointed towards a low doorway. "The lifts are through there. Take the one on the far left. Top floor." 

"Thanks," he said, and turned towards the lifts.

As the doors closed behind him, he glanced down at his comlink. "That was odd," he murmured.

"Very," Sherlock said. "I scanned her vitals while you were speaking with her. She was quite nervous, but her respiration and heart rate dropped while she was on the phone."

"Almost like she was being hypnotized," John said thoughtfully.

"You're sure you won't reconsider trying to get your hands on a sample?" 

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, a dramatic sound.

"Shut up now," John said, hiding a smile. "I'm almost at the top." 

The doors slid open, and he stepped out into another vast, marble-floored foyer. A squat man in a lab coat was hurrying towards him, hand outstretched, lips pulled back to reveal a row of crooked teeth.

"Dr Smith, I presume," John said, shoulders squared.

"Yes, indeed I am," he said, grasping John's hand. His palm was damp, unpleasant. 

"Thanks for seeing me," John said, extracting his hand from Smith's grip. He offered up his smarmiest, I'm-here-to-make-a-deal smile. "I think you and I have some interesting things to discuss." 

*

"I must offer my condolences on your colleague," Smith said, settling down into a high-backed leather chair behind his desk. The hinges squeaked as he leaned back. "Rachel Wilson and I certainly did not see eye to eye, but I can't help but be moved by senseless tragedy." He studied John for a moment, looked down at his own hands, folded primly on his desk. "I suppose no one is ever truly safe." '

John sat forward on the edge of his own chair. There was something sly, unpleasant about Smith's tone.

No sense attempting to arrive at the point gradually. If Smith was already issuing veiled threats, he likely had some idea of what John wanted to discuss.

"Funny you should say that," he said. 

Smith tilted his head, studied him with keen eyes. 

John licked his lips, considered the angle he wanted to approach from.

"I know a little something about senseless tragedy, you see," Smith said. There was a small smile toying at the edges of his lips. "My own daughter has recently passed."

"Very sorry to hear that."

Smith shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "We were estranged. She was a drunk. Tripped and fell from a Tube platform. The scene was _ghastly,_ I'm told." 

His voice was setting John's teeth on edge.

"My colleague—" 

"Likely filled your head with all manner of nonsense." 

"Very interesting nonsense," John pressed.

"Oh, but I've heard it all before," Smith said, his voice going bored. "TD-12 is dangerous, toxic, causes side-effects you wouldn't want to inflict on your worst enemy. Rachel Wilson had been spouting nothing but misinformation for weeks. The only problem is—none of it is verifiable. All of our clinical trials have been successful. There is simply no _data_ to back up her claims." 

"She had an inside source," John said. 

"So she said."

He decided to go for broke. "She gave me a name." 

Smith's eyes gleamed. "Did she?" 

"Dr Smith, you claim your daughter was a drunk. That you were estranged." 

"I do so regret that she and I will never be able to resolve our differences. But she chose her own path." 

"May I ask why you would have employed your drunken, estranged daughter here at your laboratory?" 

"Pity," he said, still smiling. "Obligation. Familial duty. I would hardly be the first to prop up a failing child with a fancy title disguising menial tasks." 

John laughed, the sound hard, sharp. He shifted in his seat. "No offense intended, Dr Smith, but does anyone actually buy that story?" 

"Of course," Smith said, his eyes wide, soft with childlike innocence. "Ask anyone here. They all know about Faith's regrettable—situation. We have no secrets here." 

He leaned forward, picked up the phone. 

"Please," he said into the receiver. "Cancel my next appointment. It appears that Mr Watson and I do, indeed, have some things to discuss. And bring me a pitcher of water. I find my throat to be a bit parched." 

He hung up, smiled. Shrugged his shoulders again. The silence between them was thick, heavy.

Behind John, the door creaked open. 

He turned, tensed, but it was only the receptionist, smiling nervously, balancing a tray with water and two tall glasses. 

"How long have you worked here, Cornelia?" Smith asked as she set the tray down on his desk and busied herself pouring two glasses of water. 

"Six months," she said. She did not make eye contact.

"Yeah, we—you mentioned that downstairs," John said. He frowned.

"And in those six months, surely you met my daughter, Faith?"

"Oh," she said. "Yes. Very sad." 

"Could you tell Mr Watson here what my daughter was like?" 

She bit her lip, looked up. "Dr Smith did a wonderful thing, keeping her on board here." 

John shook his head. "I don't understand." 

"She was a drunk," she said, expressionless. "Estranged from her family. Difficult personality." 

"She was a research physician, for God's sake," John bit out. He looked from Cornelia to Smith and back again, unsettled, bewildered. 

"Of course she wasn't," Smith said, and pushed one of the water glasses in John's direction. 

"I don't know what kind of scheme you think you're running here, but—" 

"It's quite warm in here, don't you think? Have something to drink, Mr Watson. You'll feel better." He glanced up at Cornelia, who was still hovering uncertainly by his elbow. "Thank you. That will be all." 

She left without another word, shutting the door quietly behind her. 

John shifted in his seat again. Looked at Smith. Looked at the big window behind him, a sprawling, gorgeous view of London. 

"John," Sherlock said, his voice very quiet, barely audible over his own breathing. There was concern in that voice.

John touched his comlink, looked down at the glass that Smith had offered. Smith had not yet taken a sip of his own. 

Sherlock was parked all the way down on the street, unable to be of any help to him here.

"It's in the water, isn't it? The TD-12." 

"Oh," Smith giggled, his eyes crinkling up. "Oh, this is fun. Oh, Rachel didn't even get that far, and she _was_ determined, I'll give her that." 

"What is it?" John asked. "Really." 

"Drink the water, Mr Watson. This will be a lot easier on you if you do it willingly." 

"The water," Sherlock said, his voice flat with realization. 

John cleared his throat to cover up the sound of his voice. "Not just this water, is it? It's in all of the water. The whole building. You're drugging everyone. That's—"

"A very low dose," Smith said. "Not enough to cause any serious long term effects. It just makes people—suggestible. Something that I find necessary at this juncture." 

"They're believing everything you tell them," John said, his voice growing faint to his own ears with his growing horror. "There never was any miracle drug. You've got nothing to back up your claims—but—"

"I don't need to back up my claims," Smith said, and let out another high pitched giggle. "I've got plenty of people willing to go out and swear on their lives that my drug is the most astonishing thing to emerge from modern medical science. It's worth billions, haven't you heard?" 

"The truth will come out eventually," John said. "You can't possibly hope to sustain this." 

"By then I'll be well out of the country and safely established where no one can find me," Smith said. 

"Your own daughter." 

"That was—" Smith's face contorted, just slightly, and the twist of dismay in his features seemed genuine enough. "Regrettable. I upped her dosage when I found out about her collusion with Rachel. She must have become disoriented. She was in the habit of taking the Tube home in the evenings. She fell." 

He lifted his gaze, met John's. Unblinking. The sorrow had bled out of his face. 

"But, I was not lying when I said that she chose her own path. She betrayed this company. She betrayed me." 

"And Rachel Wilson. You drugged her, too, didn't you?" 

"She chose to confront me about Faith. I'll admit that I was not feeling particularly generous at the moment—I _had_ just lost my daughter, after all."

"She's dead," he said. Thought of that sad slumped form in the back of the taxi, the vivid pink fabric crushed against the window. The terrified cab driver, shouting his innocence with his face pressed against the pavement.

"Must have had a bad reaction," Smith waved a dismissive hand, smiled. "I'm told it happens, from time to time. And, as I said, I was grieving. I may not have been as—careful—as I usually am. With the dosage." 

"An innocent man was implicated in her death." 

"Oh, come now Mr Watson. No one is innocent. Not really." 

"So what now?" John asked. "You think I'm just going to—what? Drink this? Willingly? Let you drug me? Mess about with my memories?" He laughed again, sharply, stood up. "No thanks." 

Smith sighed, a theatric sound. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a small pistol. "It would have been much easier to do it that way, of course. I'd have let you off lightly. Told you a nice bedtime story." 

He clicked off the safety.

John froze, stared down the barrel of the gun. His heart thudded against his ribs, too loud, blood rushing in his ears.

_I'm sorry, John,_ Mary had said. She'd pulled the trigger. 

She'd been sitting right next to him in the car when she'd done it. It must have been very loud.

Mycroft's team had found him crumpled in the street. She'd shoved his limp body out of the car, driven off into the night. The interior would have smelled of gunpowder and blood. The stink of adrenaline sweat and fear. Mary's cloying perfume. She would have had to roll down the windows to get rid of the smell. 

She'd shot him in the face. 

She had driven off into the night, windows down, a cool breeze ruffling her hair. 

_I'm sorry, John._

He was a stranger to himself, now. He was still startled by the face he saw in the mirror. 

John Hamish was dead. He was John Watson, now. And John Watson was— 

Well. Things were looking pretty grim for John Watson, too, at the moment.

"A deranged man gained access to my private offices using falsified press credentials," Smith said, amused, still holding the gun on John. "Threatened me with an illegal firearm. In the ensuing struggle, my assailant was—" he paused, gave John an appraising look, "—well, I suppose that's up to you. How do you want to play this, Mr Watson? Drink the water, and let's see how well it takes." 

_I'm sorry, John._

"Sherlock," he said. His throat was dry. Sherlock couldn't help him. But Sherlock was there, quietly listening on the other end of his comlink. He could listen. He—

The window behind Smith's desk _exploded_ , something huge and hulking and dark blotting out the grey London sky.

Smith shrieked, the sound high and terrified, and staggered sideways under a spray of glass and twisting metal. The gun clattered to the ground, skidded across the marble floor. 

John flung himself backwards, tucking and rolling, staggering to his feet and squinting through the dust and debris at—

_"Sherlock?!"_

"The gun, John!"

John turned towards Smith, who was crawling on his hands and knees towards his discarded firearm. 

"I don't think so," John said, kicking the gun out of reach. 

Smith rocked backwards onto his heels, eyes wide, terrified. He looked past John at Sherlock. 

"What—"

John punched him. 

He hit the ground with a satisfying thud. 

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John said, breathing hard. A laugh forced its way up through his chest and he struggled to keep it contained. "I—how the hell did you get up here?" 

"I did demonstrate my Turbo Boost feature. Were you not paying attention?" 

"We're six floors up." 

"This does appear to be the maximum altitude I'm capable of reaching," Sherlock said. "It's quite lucky that Smith didn't choose a taller building." 

John was not nearly as successful in suppressing his laughter this time around. It bubbled up, and he found himself giggling, doubled over, wiping at his dusty face. There were tears in his eyes. 

"That was the most _ridiculous_ thing—" 

"I took the liberty of broadcasting Smith's confession to the police," Sherlock said. "That reminds me—would you be so kind as to fetch a sample of that water?" 

John glanced over at Smith's desk, knocked aside. The pitcher had tipped over, one of the glasses shattered. Water had puddled on the mahogany surface, was trickling slowly down one wobbling desk leg towards the floor. Miraculously, the second glass had not spilled. 

He picked it up, carried it over to Sherlock. 

"Right in here," Sherlock said. There was a whir as a small drawer opened, extending outward from the dashboard. "Just a drop, please." 

He let water dribble out of the glass into the drawer. It slid shut. 

"Mm," Sherlock said after a moment. "As I thought. It's not dissimilar to compounds used by dentists."

"What, like laughing gas?" 

"Mm," he said again. "Bit more potent than that." 

"Right," John said. He shook his head. Thought of the blank, nervous expressions on the faces of everyone he'd passed in the hall. Of Faith Smith, stumbling in front of a train. Of Rachel Wilson, panicking in the back seat of a cab, never reaching her destination. 

He looked back down at Smith. 

"I'd really like to punch him again." 

"He's quite unconscious," Sherlock said. "And we should be on our way. The police are approximately seventy-three seconds away." 

John could hear sirens, blaring, converging on their location.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. He looked around at the chaos of the office, the shattered glass, Smith's unconscious form sprawled amidst piles of ruined papers. He nodded, once, definitive, and slipped behind the wheel. 

"Er, Sherlock," he said, as the door clicked shut. 

"Yes?" 

"How, exactly, do you plan on getting down the stairs?" 

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. John cleared his throat, drummed his fingers on the wheel, tried not to think about how _alive_ he felt. 

"Carefully," Sherlock said.

John couldn't have stopped the laugh if he tried.

**Author's Note:**

> Stop by and say hi on [Tumblr](http://discordantwords.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
